


I'm looking at the bright lights

by fictorium (orphan_account)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Drug Use, Drugs, F/F, F/M, Girl Power, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Inspired by Music, Music, Punk Rock, Recreational Drug Use, References to Drugs, Rock Stars, Rock and Roll, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-18 04:06:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2334668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/fictorium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the rock band/riot!grrl AU I didn't know I needed to write.</p><p>Regina as lead singer, Ruby on bass, Belle on keytar (come on, keytars are awesome. Ukeleles can kiss my ass) and new girl Emma as their drummer. Gold as their manager, Neal and Hook as the band they're stuck trying to get a gig with most weeks.</p><p>When success comes at last? Well, that's the real fairytale. It's just no one is sober or relaxed enough to work out if it can possibly have a happy ending.</p><p>***NO FURTHER UPDATES as of 21st June, 2015***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I'm looking at the bright lights](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1864926) by [smallandsundry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallandsundry/pseuds/smallandsundry). 



> It's where the obvious turns dumb and clarity turns off  
> I'm standing somewhere near the back of the room   
> I'm on her left, I'm in between her
> 
> She's amazing, her words save me   
> She holds her head as if it's truth   
> Where the last one passed me by 
> 
> **She’s Amazing - Team Dresch**

***

Flashbulbs fire.

Left.

Right.

Center.

The usual flurry is enough to dazzle, but this feels like staring at the heart of a nuclear explosion.

Breathe. Focus. Five steps, turn. Two steps, podium.

Place the paper. One sheet, thick enough not to show that little tremble in the hands. Hotel stationery, of all things. Lay it flat on the podium and don’t look up. Not just yet. There’s time to read the words one more time. Hide behind that meager protection of your downturned lashes.

They’re shouting - Cora! Cora! Cora! - a chorus that can sing neither in time nor in harmony. The flashes continue, no wavering in the intensity. The moment is finally here.

“I’m here to read a brief statement,” she announces, voice cracking ever so slightly as it’s amplified out over the cavernous space. It’s jammed full of journalists, paparazzi and a thousand hangers-on besides.

Cora stares straight ahead, picking a path through the throng until she finds her daughter’s face. Oh, no one else could tell beneath the wig, the dark glasses, and a scarf wrapped around for good measure. But Cora brought those sharp cheekbones and that perfect nose into this world, and she’ll never lose sight of either.

Not even now.

“On behalf of the band,” Cora continues, grateful that there’s a hush now, punctuated only by the quiet whirr of video recording and the softer clicks and squeaks of intermittent follow-up shots. “I am sorry to say that as of this afternoon, the Fairytales have decided to cease making music together.”

The roar from the room almost knocks her over, but Cora raises a hand and they calm once more.

“The reasons behind this decision are purely creative. All four members -- Regina, Emma, Ruby and Belle -- ask that you respect their privacy at this time of adjustment and upheaval for all of them. Their final album -- Happy Endings -- will still go on sale Monday as scheduled. This can be pre-ordered on iTunes, Amazon and at all the usual retail outlets. Thank you.”

As sales pitches go, it’s not quite Martha pitching her magazine on the courthouse steps after her indictment, but it’s pretty blunt all the same. The crowd heaves forward, the desperation of the questions cresting like a wave. Cora nods to the burly security boys, and an instant later they’re flanking her, guiding her back out of the room with the lightest of pressure at each elbow.

“Mrs Mills,” Graham says with a nod, before moving back inside the ballroom to protect the door from the crowd.

“Is it done?” Emma asks from the folding chair she’s fidgeting on. Picking at grapes on the platter, she eats one with the slow deliberation of a cow chewing the cud.

“It is.”

“Just the statement, right? Nothing else?”

“It’ll be on the BBC in about four minutes, I would guess. You can see for yourself.”

“Fine.” Emma stands, those long legs unfolding again in the ripped jeans she must have at least thirty pairs of. Cora got that endorsement deal personally. Making money from True Religion for a pronounced atheist had been amusing, for a fleeting moment. “Was she--”

“Gone by the time I finished. There was a car waiting.”

“Right. Right.”

“If you need any help with Henry--”

“He’s fine. Our flight leaves in about two hours.”

“Good luck.”

Emma laughs, gruff from cigarettes and the persistent vocal problems she’s been fighting for three years now. “Luck? Hell, Cora. You’re gonna tell me there’s a first time for everything, now?”

Before Cora can chastise, or make one more plea on Regina’s behalf, Emma is in motion and almost at the grand staircase that leads to the sanctuary of her suite. Another day, Cora might have followed, or sent a lackey to intercept.

Today? There doesn’t seem to be a whole lot of point.

She checks her phone reflexively, the missed calls and message counts climbing higher by the second. Putting it away she heads to the hotel’s opposite wing. Hopefully in the half hour they’ve been left alone together, Ruby and Belle won’t have done any more damage.

***


	2. Chapter 2

> _Are these sensible shoes on my feet?_   
>  _I wear my shades, so our eyes don't meet_   
>  _I'm scared every fuckin' day_   
>  _I wear my headphones_   
>  _so I can't hear what you say._   
>  **Can I Run - L7**

***

Emma hesitates at the bottom of the worn, sticky stairs. Tapping her sticks against her thigh. She can hear the familiar sounds of guitars tuning and equipment being shifted in a series of thumps.

This is the last fucking thing her hangover needs.

The bar smells like every other bar when she pushes through the tacky beads that take the place of an actual door. It’s stale piss, and vomit, obscured only by cigarette smoke, and spilled drinks The laws are supposed to be changing, and New York is going to outlaw everything pleasurable about crappy dive bars.

Her DMs rasp across the black floor as she enters, and Emma can feel all too clearly where the sole is splitting. Neither her heart nor her bank balance can deal with the thought of replacing them, the burgundy leather scraped almost beyond recognition and the replacement laces for her replacement laces, (always yellow, her lucky color,) are fraying to the point where tying them becomes more of a gesture of hope than a way of keeping the boots on her feet.

“Hello?” She calls out, because wherever the setup sounds are coming from, it’s not the bar’s barely elevated stage area. “I’m looking for uh, Gold?”

A girl emerges from behind a heavy black curtain that Emma initially took for a solid wall. Her light brown hair falls in ringlets that seem a little fussy for this early in the day, not to mention the squalid little venue. She wipes her lips with the back of her hand before answering Emma’s question.

“He’ll be out in a minute. I’m Belle, by the way. Keyboards.” She fetches a keytar from behind an amp and Emma manages not to pull a face at the sight.

“Fresh meat?” Calls another, friendly voice from somewhere off to Emma’s left. “I’m raiding the bar. Want anything?”

“I’m good.” Emma replies, wishing a second later she’d asked for a beer. “I mean, it’s early, right?”

The other girl sighs. “You can’t lie to Ruby. What’s your poison, little drummer girl?”

“Whatever’s cold,” Emma strolls across to claim her prize, a weak-ass Corona with the requisite slice of dehydrated lime and condensation rolling down the sides of the clear bottle. She’s pretty sure she’s given urine samples with a higher alcohol content, but beggars really can’t be choosers.

“Ruby!” This voice is somehow like shouting without actually raising the volume. Projection, a muddy corner of Emma’s brain unearths the word. Someone has had some training. “We’re expecting some drummers this morning, so if you can get rid of last night’s conquest and set the damn kit up?”

“She is a drummer,” Ruby answers, taking a slug of her own beer. “And as for conquest, even I can’t work that fast. She just got here. Sorry, kid… what was your name?”

“Emma. And I haven’t been a kid in a few years.” Emma rolls her eyes.

“Regina Mills.” The petite woman emerges from a closet in the far corner of the room, laden down with leads and bags of god knows what. Emma instinctively steps up to help share the load, offering a nervous smile in the process. “Do you always start drinking before lunch?”

“Uh, no? I mean, I drink, sure. Who doesn’t?”

“Hair of the dog, then?”

“Guilty as charged.” Emma bites back the urge to salute, starting to untangle the leads she’s taken from Regina, identifying the bass and electric guitars they belong to. It seems Belle already has her keytar all set. “Say, is this going to be a formal--”

“Ladies!” A wiry man leaning heavily on a cane is the next to join them. He has easily twenty years on them, and Emma knows a band manager when she sees one; some kinds of sleaze just emanate from the pores. “Ah, blondie. You’re to fill our bucket-banger vacancy?”

Not knowing which slur to be most offended by, Emma simply shrugs, the cheap pleather of her blue jacket creaking in the sudden silence. “I guess. I don’t see a trap, so maybe you’d better get me some buckets?”

“Ruby.” Gold clicks his fingers and her drink is gone, long legs scurrying across to the staged area where a decent but battered kit emerges from behind more of those dense black curtains. Emma’s fingers itch to clip the parts together herself, but she hangs back.

“So, first come, first served?” She asks Gold when Ruby finally steps away from the drums with their chrome rims and fading marbled paint. “I mean, I don’t see anyone else waiting, so…”

“You’re the only person we’re auditioning today.” Gold stares pointedly at Regina, who picks up a battered purple Strat, only one sticker adorning the body. It’s one of those rainbow Apple stickers that all the rich kids stick on anything else they own just to remind everyone when their expensive laptop is out of sight. “I believe you know my son?”

“Your son?” Emma asks, taking a seat on the rickety little stool that barely supports her weight. No wonder the last drummer quit, if he was the 200lb guy Emma had seen around at open-mic nights.

“Neal Cassidy,” Gold supplies, and Emma blanches. Neal is in a band with some creepy older guy he calls his best friend, but they mostly play metal nights and Emma doesn’t take much part in that. Even with her years of drumming those basslines can give her a headache that lasts well into the next day. On one such night, distracted by the pain in her head, she’d let Neal round third base in the hallway of his grungy apartment. Since then she’s been avoiding him more than usual.

“Neal. Right. So this gig, would it be supporting his uh, Lost Boys?”

“We’re not a metal band,” Regina snaps, despite her serious eyeliner and the fact that both she and Ruby have long, dark hair falling in their face like every metalhead Emma’s ever met. “And whatever Mr Gold says, we are not changing our sound to fit in with his wonderboy Hook, or Neal for that matter.”

“Enough chatter,” Gold interrupts, clearly growing impatient as he checks the large watch on his wrist. It’s just the wrong side of flashy, especially with his suit that’s a decade out of style and hair that’s bordering tragically on the side of mullet. “Let’s test those chops, Emma. You come highly recommended, so don’t disappoint me. Four on the floor, whenever you’re ready.”

Emma hesitates for only a second, mulling over the word disappointment just a fraction longer than she should, before launching a steady beat on the kit. Her tubs sound a little too hollow, just a few trips too many in and out of vans; she can hear it in the echo of every beat. The pies however ring out silky and true, as brassy as Duke Ellington in the small, dark space. She switches up to the money beat without thinking, gratified when Ruby starts finger-picking an accompaniment on her bass.

“You all know Nirvana, right?” Emma changes up her rhythm and launches into those distinctive flams, figuring anyone who can’t keep up isn’t really anyone she wants to play with night after night anyway. Ruby barely misses a beat to bring that iconic bassline to life, and Belle smiles for a moment before jamming along in what at least sounds like the right key. What Emma isn’t expecting is for Regina, guitar slung low, to step up to the one switched-on mic and offer her own transposed take on those gruff, barely intelligible lyrics.

From Regina’s lips the instructions to disaffected youth are more plaintive, more compelling than Emma’s ever known them to be. Hell, the verses are something to be hummed along to most of the time, in this song that fired her imagination enough to then rummage deeper and find the Bleach album, only to become a cliché in turn when the next generation of kids tried to claim it as their own. Emma almost misses a beat listening to Regina’s take on the repeated ‘hello’s’ on the bridge, but she’s smashing into the chorus on sheer instinct, exhilarated at the sound they’re already making together.

“Show me something else,” Gold bellows as they approach the second verse. They come to a discordant halt, and Emma considers for a moment before launching into the rat-a-tat opening of some R.E.M. If Regina knows the lyrics on this one, she’ll be impressed, but Regina concentrates on strumming the chords while Belle excitedly takes vocals on this one. She fumbles the faster sequences, but Ruby holds her up with a steady alto harmony, and together they make it pretty far.

When Gold opens his mouth to demand more, Emma is waiting. She doesn’t launch into full songs this time, instead playing riff after opening after solo, visiting all her favorites from Led Zeppelin through The Police with as much vim and vigor as she can muster. Her hangover is receding, the music pulsing through her veins like anesthesia. The others watch on in appreciation, and only when Emma has started on a highly stylized take on ‘Back in Black’ does he nod in confirmation.

“You’ll need to be quick on learning their original stuff,” he warns. “Ladies, meet your new drummer. I trust this time I’ll get no arse ache about it.”

Ruby flips him off behind his back as he retreats, but Belle actually stares after him in a horrible, dreamy sort of way. Regina, true to form, all but ignores the man.

“Got sheet music?” Emma asks, getting up off the stool. She’ll have to bring some duct tape or maybe some kind of wrench to try and stabilize the thing. It’s going to take a couple of gigs before she can afford a replacement. “I can play by ear too, but if you don’t want to babysit me through it all I’ll take sheet music or demo tapes.”

“I don’t know why you thought sucking up to Neal would help,” Regina snaps, hands on her hips. “You might have passed Gold’s low bar, but if you don’t pass mine then I will find a way to get you out of my band.” Her smile is chilling, almost downright threatening. “These two will walk you through their very limited repertoire. I have things to do.”

With that, Regina is stalking off, guitar hastily packed and jacket pulled on. Unlike anyone else Emma’s ever seen in a place like this, Regina’s jacket is a fitted blazer. It’s clearly designer and it looks really freaking good with her ripped black jeans and tight gray top. Unfortunately that impression is the last one Emma gets to form, because Regina is already heading out of the door that brought Emma into this strange little band.

“Okay,” Ruby announces, sitting on the edge of the stage with her bass in her lap. “Let’s start with the easy ones? The tough ones, the ones Regina wrote? We’re going to need more liquor for those.”

“Yeah?” Emma takes her place in the impromptu triangle. “Okay, give me a flavor and I’ll go pick out some beats.”

***

She’s counting out change to grab a hot chocolate when she feels a hand at her back.

“Em!” Neal is like a puppy, despite his hipster glasses and fussy scarf, he just can’t affect the lack of enthusiasm that’s supposed to make him cool. He’s practically bouncing at just the sight of her. “How did it go with my dad? Don’t tell me Regina scared you off first?”

“I, uh, got the gig. Thanks, I guess? I mean, I wasn’t expecting anything. I just got the message about a drummer and went along, you know?”

“I knew you wouldn’t take help from me, so I asked around,” Neal says, blushing as he shoves his hands in the pockets of his military surplus jacket. “My dad says the all-girl thing works better as a support for my guys, anyway. Can I get you a coffee?”

“No thanks,” Emma says as kindly as she knows how, handing over a fistful of coins to the server. “I’m all set.”


	3. Chapter 3

Emma honestly means to be on time, but the goddamned bus doesn’t care about things like her non-career, so after two different passengers start a fight over exact change and the damn bus gets rammed by a careless Buick driver, Emma justs kicks the emergency exit door at the back open and starts jogging down back streets to get to the club. Another day she would have been at home before rehearsal, four blocks from the place, but she’s resorted to shoplifting again to fill her empty food cupboard, and Emma knows better than to risk that on her own doorstep.

Stumbling in red-faced isn’t exactly her idea of a classy entrance, but Emma is greeted only by the sight of Regina’s back, hunched over her guitar case.

“Hey,” she pants. “I, uh… the bus.”

“They’re late, too.” Regina is snappish, not even looking up from whatever part she’s twiddling. “As you can see. I hope they taught you at least something yesterday?”

“Yeah, we jammed out on about 5 or 6 tracks. They gave me the tapes for the others. I listened.”

“Think you can keep up?”

“I know I can.”

Regina turns at last, giving Emma one of those appraising looks that’s way too close to teacher or social worker for her liking. 

“Everything you played yesterday was performed by male, or almost all-male bands. Did you know that?”

“It wasn’t a conscious choice, but… yeah. You want rock music, you’re gonna come across a lot of guys.” Emma stalks past Regina then, taking her place behind the tubs and pulling the sticks from her inside pocket. “Is this where you tell me that Miss Fancy Blazers is really just into music as a feminist uprising? Because you sure as hell knew the words to Nirvana.”

“A guinea pig would know the words to that song.”

“Maybe that pig should join the band, then. That would sell some tickets. Besides, what are you giving me crap for when your precious band is playing support for Neal and his sleazy pal?”

Regina’s head actually snaps up at that. She’s gone a little easier on the smoky eye makeup today, Emma notices. But there’s plenty of silver jewelry adorning both ears and necklace upon necklace around her neck until it starts to look a bit like chainmail or something. 

“We’re nobody’s support act. We’re just sharing a bill, makes it easier for the label guys if Gold has all his bands in one place.”

“You think we’re ready for a label audition?” Emma snorts, before starting to pick out four on the floor. She shoves the sticks back in her jacket and pulls the brushes instead. They’ve seen better days, but they fit in her hands like they’ve never been out of them, and that counts for just as much when it comes to controlling the sound. She counts out in her head and begins the soft caress of the cymbals, building up into sloshy hats that gets Regina’s foot tapping. “The girls said your songs are a lot tougher. Why is that?”

“Maybe I’m just a sadist.”

“You have to play them, too,” Emma points out. “So technically I’d say that makes you a masochist.” She adds the bass drum into the mix, driving the beat a little faster now.

“Careful, gorrilla foot,” Regina warns. “Stamp over my vocals like that and you’ll be back to subbing in school bands.”

“Play something of yours,” Emma demands. “I’ll show you how I keep up.” It’s a big bluff, considering she only listened to the tape once, and while some of the songs caught her attention, the combination of tiredness and only a shitty drum machine to provide a backing, hadn’t exactly seared them into Emma’s brain.

“Fine.” Regina sighs, plugging her Strat into the amp and givinga performance out of hooking the strap over her head. She’s trying Emma’s patience, but this soft routine is one Emma can keep going for hours if needed, and she’ll pick out Regina’s song in a bar or two. At least she hopes so. 

The intro is a scorching arpeggio played with lightning fingers, a gauntlet thrown down on Regina’s own abilities and a ‘fuck you’ to go with it. Emma can’t deny she’s impressed, but she closes her eyes after a moment and lets the music alter the rhythm of her hands. By the third bar she’s found a groove that keeps time, and by the time Regina’s hammers the vocal about escaping a crappy small town with no hope and no prospects, Emma’s managed to throw in a lick or two that get her the good kind of raised eyebrow.

By the second chorus, Ruby and Belle come spilling in from the backroom, Ruby pulling her micro mini down to very little effect. Emma lets her gaze linger on those long legs a moment, before offering each of them a tight smile. Playing blind is an uncomfortable sprint for her, and Emma can’t deny she’s relieved when Regina throws the last chord out and silence takes over the rehearsal space for a moment.

“Sounding good,” Belle offers. “You guys been rehearsing long?”

“You were just in back,” Regina points out. “So you know that’s our first song together.”

“Well, Emma’s clearly a natural,” Ruby offers with a wink. “And given your track record with drummers, Regina, you might want to take a chance on someone with that kind of ability.”

Regina’s expression is thunderous. Emma looks away, before her gaze is construed as a question. She might not know these women yet, but she knows the signs of a nasty old bruise being poked at, both literally and in the more emotional sense. This, she remembers, is why she so frequently plays with guy bands. It’s also easier to concentrate on the notes when there isn’t a clutch of really hot women standing around her.

Before Ruby can fumble together an apology, Regina stalks off towards the bathrooms. Based on her last visit, Emma wonders if she should check whether Regina has had a recent tetanus shot, but hell, it’s not like the state of the place is anything Regina doesn’t know.

“What was that about?” Emma asks, accepting the beer that Ruby pulls out from the fridge for her. “I mean, I get that she’s the pissy egomaniac lead singer, cliché though it might be. That felt like something I should know to avoid, though.”

Belle and Ruby exchange glances, before Ruby beckons Emma closer and the unholy circle of gossip forms between the three of them.

“We’ve been through a few, is all. There was Leo, he was older than us and okay the visual was weird but damn, he could play. Like, why isn’t he touring with Springsteen kind of play, you know?”

“Regina didn’t like him?”

“I don’t know, something happened. She accused him of some ugly shit and eventually even Gold had to listen to her.”

“That’s when Daniel showed up,” Belle continues. “Now, I’m not going to lie, we all had a shot at him. You know the type: floppy hair, actually showers more than once a month. That’s catnip around here, plain and simple.”

“Right,” Ruby agrees. “But Regina was smitten. You’ve never seen anything like it. Then one day Gold tells us that Daniel’s taken off, joined some better outfit. She uh, she didn’t take it too well. The band almost fell apart then.”

“Yet here you all are.”

“Yup.” Belle nods. “It’s a shame we didn’t stick with Kathryn on drums, but she was just too nice for all this. One of Regina’s school friends, so she didn’t just play drums, she was a _percussionist_ , you know?”

“School like high school?” Emma asks, sucking down her Corona. She has to talk to Ruby about getting some real damn beer in this place if she’s sticking around. Or better yet, some frosty cold vodka. 

Ruby snorts at that.

“I don’t know where Miss Thang went to high school, but it must have been fancy enough to get her into Juilliard.” 

Emma whistled low through her teeth at that. 

“I knew she was good, but what’s R-Sharp doing slumming it with us downtown? Surely Lincoln Center is just crying out for some fancy guitar-picking?”

“You’d be surprised,” Regina says from behind Emma, making her blood run cold. Belle and Ruby look away. Emma is on her own for this one. “Tell me, Miss Swan, if I said someone with your ability didn’t belong somewhere playing classical music, well, that would make me the worst kind of snob, wouldn’t it?”

“Trust me,” Emma replies. “I don’t know my Bach from my Beethoven.”

“I’m shocked.” Regina is clearly anything but. “Even so, I’d like to think you could develop an appreciation for them.”

“You want to bring the French horn to Riot!Grrl?” Emma scoffs. “Good luck with that.”

“Listen,” Ruby interrupts. “We really should get practicing if we’re going to rock this on Saturday night. I heard there’s more than one label coming in.”

“Yes,” Regina agrees. “Let’s take it from the top on the new setlist, okay?”

Everyone nods before slinking back to their respective instruments. Whatever this little experiment is, Emma thinks, it sure as hell won’t be boring as long as Regina Mills is on the radar.


	4. Chapter 4

The buzz in the room is more blind drunk that actually enthusiastic, but Emma feels the jolt in her bloodstream all the same. 

“Hey,” Ruby appears in the cramped corner of backstage like she can teleport. She presses a little bundle of foil into Emma’s right hand. “First night nerves are a bitch. Belle and I got this as a little extra for you when we got ours.”

“I don’t really--”

“Right. But come on. Tonight really counts, Emma. We can’t have you freezing up with stage fright, okay? Think about it. You know where I am if you really don’t want it.”

Emma considers for a moment, before ducking into the alleged green room that’s little more than a cupboard with a couple of chairs in it, everyone’s bags thrown over the back. She pulls the hand mirror and her one remaining credit card from the zip-up pocket in her jacket and gets to work. It’s easy enough to unfold the wrap, and it’s really just old habit that makes her tidy the white powder into two perfectly straight lines. Her nose smears the glass as she snorts, because truthfully she doesn’t even have a five or a one on her to roll up and get a little distance.

Her eyes water, and the second bump doesn’t hit all the way back, leaving her to snort in a less than dignified way. She’s just about got herself back together when Regina appears, yanking the door open and glaring down at Emma.

“Oh great. Another idiot.”

“Hey!” Emma defends, but as she stands the first sharp slap of her high hits. Maybe she is an idiot. Who the fuck cares. She’s on fire now, and she’s going to give those people out there a show, Regina included. “You know what, R-Sharp? You should lighten the fuck up.”

She punctuates her exit with a playful smack on Regina’s ass as they step out into the corridor.

“We’re on after this song,” is Regina’s only retort, and tonight there’s no blazer or anything so pedestrian. Her shorts are tiny and leather, and the white tanktop she’s wearing is more a suggestion of fabric held together with pins through most of the places where it’s ripped. Her lipstick is a violent purple, and in that moment Emma wants nothing so much as she wants to see how the imprint of Regina’s mouth would look on the base of her throat.

“Have a good show,” Emma offers, kecking on every surface she can find on her way to stage left. 

***

A good show is an understatement. She hopes it’s not the coke, just goddamned musical chemistry, but they pick out their notes with unerring precision and the harmonies are downright sick. Emma feels like she could play until her arms snap off at the elbow, and their set feels depressingly short, even though six full songs is a lot for their position on the bill. 

Haughty Regina of the rehearsal room is gone. On stage she is queen of all she surveys. Her hair whips forward when she launches into electrifying solos, and the sweat on her skin glistens like diamonds under the amateur stage lighting that doesn’t get much past rotating three color gels and a shaky follow spot that can’t keep up with anyone. 

They start with a cover, and if Courtney had known her notes could sound like that, she might have let someone else sing them all along. Emma pulls out most of her bag of tricks over that rendition of ‘Babydoll’ and the two originals that follow. They mellow out for their fourth track, one of Ruby’s that lacks the impact of Regina’s songwriting, but with plenty of smolder between the two of them as they harmonize. It feels like New York might just have its next underground lesbian anthem. If it ever had one in the first place, anyway.

Emma is playing out of her skin by the time they close with a cover of ‘Disarm’, she finally has that 'part of the band' feeling. They stumble offstage, drinking in the applause that actually feels genuine, and Emma pretends not to notice that Ruby and Belle are practically groping each other under the guise of navigating the narrow backstage corridor. 

She hardly dares turn around to see Regina behind her. Regina, who took the final bow, appropriately self-deprecating and genuinely grateful in the simple action of bending at the waist. Before Emma can plot an escape to ride out the rest of her high and take some edges off with a double vodka, she feels a grip on her elbow that steers her right out onto a fire escape. 

The night isn’t cold, but overheated from the stage as they are, both Regina and Emma shiver as the air touches them. 

“You play like that every time?” Regina is panting slightly, her exertions on stage taking their toll. “Then me and you? We’ll be this band. I swear to God.”

“We were all pretty great,” Emma compromises. She doesn’t mention that, with a gun to her head, she couldn’t give a single detail about Ruby or Belle’s performance, not even what they were both wearing. Regina, on the other hand? Emma could rattle off enough details, enough mental images to qualify as felony stalking, easy. “Did Gold seem happy?”

“I didn’t see him,” Regina dismisses the man with a wave. “He’s probably in the bathroom blowing the guy from Geffen.”

“Is anyone around here actually straight?”

“Most of the time,” Regina sighs. “But needs must, little drummer girl.”

“What about you?”

“Me? Straight?” Regina considers Emma for a long moment, dark eyes flicking back and forth across Emma’s face. “How limiting.”

“Right.” Emma hooks her thumbs in her belt loops and wonders how to turn this perfect feeling into something she can actually articulate. Maybe a simple thanks would do the trick, but something tells her Regina isn’t that gracious.

“You know,” Regina leans in, grabbing one of those belt loops with her index finger. “There is one way I love to celebrate. When a gig comes off like that.”

“Really?” Emma squeaks. Regina’s mouth, the same one that sang so raw and so beautifully, is now just a few inches from Emma’s own. “Well, good luck finding someone to celebrate with,” she finishes, wriggling her way free of Regina’s grip.

“You did not just--”

“Not going to be another one of your… whatevers,” Emma warns. “Keep your drummer fetish to yourself, and I’ll keep my habit of making really bad decisions over here. Deal?”

“You’re choosing… what? Band harmony over a night with me?” Regina might be pouting, but Emma could swear she’s just a little impressed, too. “How noble. Or should I say, how stupid?”

Emma shakes her head. “You’ll thank me. Tomorrow, when this buzz has worn off. And we can still play like pros.”

“If you say so.” Regina gathers herself, and the mask is reassembled so quickly that Emma doubts for a second whether she actually imagined the whole attempt at seduction. “We should go put in an appearance for Hook and his Lost Boys,” she continues. 

“Good idea,” Emma finishes, and she finds herself actually biting her own fist on the walk back into the bar, so high is her sexual frustration.

So when Neal, fresh from his own stage high and with promising murmurs from Gold about recording an official demo to whisper in her ear, makes a move that night… well. Emma figures it can’t do all that much harm.


	5. Chapter 5

They’re into their second week of studio time and tempers are fraying. The only hours all four can manage are usually bizarre, working around all of their part-time jobs and the studio’s available slots. They’re hitting two in the morning on a Wednesday when Belle snaps, bursting into tears at a pointed remark from Regina. Ruby moves in to comfort her, but Gold emerges from the soundbooth to intervene instead. His warning to Regina is muttered, but it’s enough to make even her blanch.

Ruby, rejected from the role of caregiver, picks up her bass and storms out into the night. Emma hopes she’ll have the sense to hail a cab, but knowing Ruby she’s just as likely to head to a late bar as actually go home. 

“So, I guess that just leaves us, huh?” Emma says, getting out from behind the trap and flipping her sticks with forced nonchalance. She fumbles the catch, embarrassingly, and has to pick them off the floor with tired hands. “Any bitching about me you need to get off your chest? Or is one sobbing wreck enough for you?”

“While we’re on the subject, you’re sluggish as hell coming in off the bridge in ‘Escape’,” Regina fires right back, barely drawing breath before unleashing her next volley. “In fact, give me those.” She snatches the sticks right from Emma’s loose grip and situates herself behind the drums. “So, you’re on the tight hats here, right?” 

Regina sings the lines over the top to situate them exactly in the song, but Emma doesn’t notice because Regina is playing the drumline with startling competence. She might lack the relaxed wrists and cute licks of a more experienced player, but her rhythm is flawless and when she rolls into the pre-chorus there’s only one slight flub. Emma’s mortified that it’s a better attempt than she’s mustered all night.

“They teach you drumming at your fancy school too, huh? Must be for marching band, right?”

“Not at Juilliard, no.” Regina shuts it down, but Emma has alighted on an idea she can’t quite resist. 

“You’re one of those, aren’t you? The sav… thingy? Savior?”

Regina snorts. “You mean savant. And no. I just have an ear for music.”

“And perfect pitch. Not to mention your sense of rhythm. Wow, I think I really do hate you.”

“The feeling is mutual, I assure you.”

“Okay, look at all these pieces lying around in here,” Emma gestures to the orchestral instruments left on chairs across the studio. Nothing to do with their own somewhat rasping sound, but the space is shared and not everyone wants to schlep their kit back and forth every day. “I’ll challenge you right now. Whoever gets a tune out of most of them… the other one has to buy them a drink.”

“Such low stakes,” Regina stares at her nails, bored. “Make it a bottle of your preferred drink, and you’re on.”

“Cocky? Even better.” Emma picks up the semi-acoustic nearest her and strums a few chords. “That’s one to me.”

Regina rolls her eyes. “The drums count as my first. Now, let’s see…” She pretends to think for a moment but her body language is all about the black baby grand in the corner. Emma sits back on a director’s chair, waiting for a few scales, or maybe a quick rendition of Chopsticks to prove a point. 

The rapid, complicated burst of… whatever the fuck, nearly knocks Emma from her perch.

“I studied piano and cello at Juilliard,” Regina supplies, moving on to, yes, a cello. 

“So you’re not even playing your first instrument? Regina, how freaking talented are you?”

“This band, my own music… that’s what makes me want to get out of bed every day. I can do the other stuff too, sure I can.” Regina makes her point by dragging the bow over the strings and producing a melody that even Emma faintly recognizes as Bach. “But I can’t live for it. I can’t build my life around it.”

“Okay, just tell me what else you can play before I make a fool of myself?”

Regina points to a clarinet, a sax and a flute. She considers for a moment and then strides across the room to pick up a triangle. She makes it ‘ting’, poker face completely intact. “There’s no violin here, but as you can imagine it’s not a million miles from the cello. Once you get the fingering…”

“Right.” Emma holds her hands up in defeat. “What’s your poison, then? So far I’ve only seen you mainlining black coffee and Diet Coke?”

“You’ll have to guess. We should get out of here, technically our time ran out five minutes ago anyway.”

“I don’t even get a hint?” Emma groans.

“No, Emma, you don’t.” But the first name thing? That sounds almost like progress.

They trudge through to reception with a wave to whichever engineer might still be in the booth. Emma is pushing out into the summer night through the revolving door when she feels a hand on her arm.

“You don’t live around here, do you?” Regina asks, eyes averted to survey the evening traffic. “I mean, I know you live close to the bar, so it kind of follows…”

“It’s not long on the subway,” Emma assures her, although she’s down to her last five bucks again and walking is the cheapest option. “I never thought to ask where you live. Let me guess, Upper East Side?”

“Upper West,” Regina corrects. “And don’t assume you know anymore about me than you did a moment ago. Now my question is: would you like a ride home?”

“You drive?” Emma is surprised that anyone born and raised in the city actually bothers.

“No. Well, yes. But I have a car service. My parents insist I use it if I’m out after a certain time. Especially at this end of town.”

“That must be nice.” Emma hopes she keeps the bitterness hidden.

Family isn’t something they’ve discussed in the past couple of weeks of frantic rehearsing and recording, and she intends to keep it that way as long as possible. She can’t stand the patronizing nods and platitudes everyone gives her when they hear ‘foster care’. 

“Listen, do you want the ride or not?” Regina snaps. “I can’t use it to ferry everyone all over the city, but one drop isn’t a problem.”

“Fine,” Emma isn’t too proud to admit that the long walk home is filling her with dread. This way she won’t cave and cut into that five dollars for a token when the subway looks too tempting. Think of all the ramen she can feast on in the morning. “Do we have to call, or…?”

“Over there,” Regina nods towards the black town car. “Try to resist the urge to stick your head out of the window like a Golden Retriever?”

“Damn, there you go again. Ruining all my best plans.”

“It’s a gift.”

Emma slides into the backseat when Regina opens the door, reminding herself the whole time not to get used to this, or anything even close to it.


End file.
